“She said he physically abused Andrea?” Tracy asked.
“That’s what she said, but before you get too excited that it was Chambers who helped Strickland, I can tell you that the weekend of the climb, Devin Chambers was at the coast. She produced a credit card receipt for the hotel and restaurants.”
“Were you able to verify those?”
Fields scoffed again and Tracy was starting to tire of it. “Like what, that she walked into the restaurant, ordered a meal to go, drove six hours to Mount Rainier, helped the wife disappear, and drove back? I had the receipts saying she was there.”
Kins jumped in. “Okay, so regardless of who helped her, now what? He figures out she played him, goes after the money, and kills her? Since she’s already dead, nobody will miss her, so long as they don’t find the body—which explains the crab pot.”
“He’d still be my primary suspect,” Fields said. “And I’d work him hard, but you got a body now, so I guess it’s gonna become your rodeo.”
“Does he have a lawyer?” Kins asked.
Fields nodded. “A good one in Portland.”
“How long were they married?” Tracy asked.
“Right around a year. They got married within weeks of meeting. So now you’re wondering if he chose her on purpose, someone with money and without any relatives. Am I right?”
“So you suspected it?” Tracy said.
“Absolutely I suspected it, but I didn’t find anything in his past to indicate that was the case—first marriage for both of them. Plus, I don’t think she’s the innocent little girl she portrayed herself to be. These kinds of people tend to find one another, know what I mean?”
“So no other suspects?” Tracy asked.
Fields finished the last of his beer. “No need. It was like after the OJ trial when the press asked Gil Garcetti if they were going to pursue the real killer, and Garcetti said, ‘The killer just walked out the door.’ I was convinced that was the case here. Still am.”
“Any indication he owned a boat or fished?” Tracy asked.
“Not that I’m aware of. He didn’t strike me as that type.”
“What type?” Kins asked.
“Someone who’d bait his own hook.”
“But you think he’s capable of killing?”
Fields slid the empty plate away from the edge of the table. “I have no doubt he had the intent. Maybe now you can prove the act to go with that intent.”
CHAPTER 10
Genesis made a profit our first month in business and Graham’s mood was sky high, but that just made the fall that much farther and the landing that much harder. Business steadily declined as the novelty of legalized marijuana wore off. Then the laws changed, as the article I had read suggested, allowing medical dispensaries to sell retail. That was the kiss of death, that and Graham had insisted on a Pearl District address and tenant improvements that would have made King Louis XIV blush. Turns out our “high-end” clientele really didn’t care about things like Brazilian floors or display-case lighting. They cared about price.
I wanted to say I told you so, but I suspected—no, by this time I knew—where that would lead.
The minute the business started to tank, so did our relationship. Graham’s mood swings had become more frequent and more dramatic, sometimes violent. He seemed to always be on edge, stressed out, and it didn’t take much to set him off. We were deep in debt and I didn’t know how we were going to pay the rent on the dispensary or the loft. Even using the interest payments I received from the trust, we were going to be significantly short.
The sex had become nonexistent, but now we didn’t even talk. Graham had been bringing home edibles—marijuana in dried fruit, cookies, even things like gummy bears. He said it helped him to relax and fall asleep. It definitely did that. Most nights he passed out on the couch, which was a blessing, because if he’d also been drinking, which was not infrequent, he quickly became incoherent—or belligerent. Half the time his speech was so slurred, I couldn’t even understand what he was saying. And the one time we’d tried to make love, he hadn’t been able to get a hard-on, and that had just made him angry and spiteful.
“I’m tired, Andrea,” he’d said, quickly getting out of bed. “I’m under a lot of stress at work. What did you think was going to happen?”
“I was hoping it would help you relax,” I’d said.
“You want to help me relax? Talk to your trustee and see about using the funds to help us pay some of these bills. I’m killing myself at the store. The hours are killing me.” Then he’d stormed out of our bedroom and slept on the couch.